


Mom Of Havoc

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Lucha Underground
Genre: Character Study, Family, Gen, Hobbies, Love, Motherhood, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: Son of Havoc's Mom lives on the Open Road. She pours coffee and refills sugar. She's always loved motorbikes and knows them inside out. She always knew her son would too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the season 3 episode where we met Son of Havoc's Mom :)

 

 

 

It all started with a Henderson, a four-cylinder that even then had seen better days but to her, it was the most startlingly beautiful thing she'd ever seen. That handlebar swoop, the exposed bodywork that seemed to fit together like the most natural thing in the world. Like clockwork she'd seen in an old store down by her aunt's house, all bright and so strange, the look of it something she'd never thought about before and was now almost captivated by. And the noise, my my. She had laughed when she'd heard it.

 

The man riding it had worn a lovely dark silver mask. She remembered because the pattern had reminded her of the soup can labels she'd been stacking in the pantry only that night. His hair had been long and curly under it, and one of his heavy-looking signet rings had gotten tangled there after he'd parked up.

 

He'd smiled down at her, “You watching my bike for me?”

 

She'd nodded immediately, wanting to just look at it some more. She couldn't have said why. He'd laughed but hadn't patted her on the head or anything like that. He hadn't even gotten close to her. Instead he'd hummed a little something and walked into the bar just down the road. She'd stared at the bike and thought about the noise and how much it was shining in the sun.

 

It wasn't the only one either. More appeared as she'd started looking – Hendersons, Harleys, Triumphs,  Excelsiors. Years later she'd look back and marvel at what wonderful quality worksmanship she'd been exposed to at such a young age. And how beautiful they'd all been, right there on two wheels.

 

Well, it was the start of something particular for her. Yes, it was.

 

*

 

Of course her brother came to own bikes as he grew older. Many of them. His first was a sport bike, bright yellow. He was never hard to miss on that. It ran fast and he loved it until it started choking. He got her to hold the flashlight when he started poking into the engine to work it out. He talked to himself while worked, naming each part and what it did. Well, she wasn't that interested – she liked looking at it more than anything else. She didn't have any interest in how a bike was put together but the part names were repeated often as he worked, for his own benefit really so that he got it right and didn't have to pay so much money to someone else, so she started turning them into a song. She used it for jumping rope. Her brother didn't appreciate that, though he did start humming it more than once and got her to hold the flashlight for him more and more.

 

He always seemed to like bikes in gaudy colors. She never understood that; all those sport bikes. She preferred bikes like the road – gravel and tar with shining brackets. He laughed at her. His friends laughed too but liked to show her their bikes, to hear her comments, and eat the fruit pies she made and served with soft whip cream. He always told them not to bother with her but she knew he wasn't as annoyed as he pretended. He liked how much she knew about bikes. That smile of his told the truth and it was even better than the new Henderson.

 

Yamaha became his chosen brand and she learned to spot one when it was little more than a bright speck in the distance. He died on a Yamaha too – twenty-three years old, almost broke his back and crushed his lungs in the crunch. The smell had lingered for days after. She hadn't been able to wash it out of her clothes.

 

The parade of bikes – Indians, Harleys, and so many Hondas – that had been the best help to her. She had a framed photograph of it. She remembered the colors best of all, gleaming under the sun. All of those colors.

 

*

 

She took to looking at magazines and catalogues, flipping through to admire racing lines or a beautiful design. Bike magazines, glossies that talked about masks, and recipe books filled her shelves. Her mom didn't notice the collection, she was out answering phones most of the time and trying not to show her worry about how they were all going to afford new shoes this year, the tape wasn't going to hold them together forever. Her dad worked hard on numbers for people and squinted at everything like the sun was in his eyes. He drove a car and never touched a bike. His brother did; he drove from coast to coast each year and had a new tattoo every time he visited. He showed her the one for her brother across his collarbone. She was pleased to see bright colors there.

 

There was a problem with her uncle's bike engine that day, she could hear it. She frowned as she poured coffee.

 

“Your belt sounds terrible.”

 

His eyebrows went pointed and he rubbed a oil-smudged thumb across the mug's cracked handle. She'd repaired it herself only last week; the glue had nearly ruined two of her books. She'd got it right the second time.

 

Her father started talking about a good car to get but her uncle asked her to come take a look at the bike's belt. She didn't know if she could help but she looked all the same. It'd been a while since she'd had a look at an Excelsior and it was nice to see the shape again. She could hear her brother's voice, wishing for a Honda instead. She hummed, just for a moment. It was wonderful to hear him again, to have him joining in. Then she concentrated on the beauty of the bike, as her brother always had.

 

*

 

She'd never had an urge to ride one. Oh she'd sat on one, a friend of her uncle's had invited her to try, but the shaking of the engine had only made her stomach jump up and that was that. A sick stomach was not something to nurture; not when she had recipes to continue and dough to roll out.

 

No, she never wanted to own a bike for riding. She liked the company though; being able to look at such a mass of them, all those colors and lines. They all seemed to flow into one other somehow. She wondered how they did that. No magazine had been able to tell her.

 

She liked to look and she loved to talk to the bikers. She was lucky; working along the Open Road meant she was never far away from a bike. Oh, she couldn't imagine a better place to refill sugar or take an order.

 

*

 

Half the bikers she met wore masks. She'd seen all kinds and loved asking about the designs and where did they get their masks tailored? She knew someone who needed to know – poor love, his kept slipping over his eyes, it was an accident waiting to happen. She found a name that could help and he thanked her profusely the next time he parked up outside for a meat pie with his black coffee. She loved the stylizing over the mask's ears and told him so.

 

Sometimes she was asked questions; about engine parts, handlebars and kickstands. Her uncle had been talking and sometimes she could help. If nothing else, it was lovely to be asked and her manager didn't mind so much when the bikers left a little extra money. She always held the flashlight.

 

*

 

There were regulars. She enjoyed their company. The manager didn't like the concrete outside being  _too_ full of bikes, said it put off other customers. But bikers moved on without staying long. Of course they did, the road was calling them. A magazine hadn't had to teach her that.

 

There was one man who came every week. His mask was plain black, to match his bike, and the lower half of his face was mostly beard and a mouth that seemed fitted to a beer glass. He watched her but he never tried to grab her – one or two did and well, it wasn't something she liked talking about. But she paid for the smashed glass and cleaned it all up afterward.

 

Anyway, the man in black was a regular. And they exchanged smiles now, well she smiled and he watched her without saying a word. He didn't even ask for more beer, he just held out his glass. He didn't possess many good manners.

 

She never looked at his bike, never held a flashlight near it.

 

Some bikers looked happy to see her, after weeks away on the road and returning coated with dust. Honestly, the smells they brought in with them. She shook her head and they complimented her on the silver in her hair and told her all about the journey and the masks they'd worn and the bikes they'd seen while she poured beer or coffee and took their orders. She did love to hear those conversations. It was the best kind of talk, to her ears. She had company sometimes when she headed home, which was so sweet of them. Apparently they didn't always give even tips so willingly to other wait staff but they were good as a 1980 Harley to her.

 

*

 

One day she was a waitress, the next day she was a mom-to-be. Her parents had expectations. She told them the father traveled a lot – he did – and that he wasn't the settling type – he wasn't. But he made sure she got money every month like a well-tuned engine and he was there, every month that he could be, still with that beer glass in hand. They didn't talk much. She still smiled at him, not as much as she smiled at bikes, masks and friends she'd made that arrived with both. But he was there.

 

*

 

When a midnight-blue Honda crossed the parking lot and its rider did a ridiculous somersault off before he was completely parked up, her son kicked. She laughed, very unsurprised. Her friends on their bikes told her that her son was going have a great first ride. They talked about all raising a glass to her boy. She now had company every time she headed home or went to work; a bright headlamp or two shadowing her, almost as bright as a flashlight.

 

The road would call for her son, she was sure of it as she rubbed a worn fond hand over her belly. She lived on the Open Road but he would race it and map it and go far beyond and bring her back wonderful stories. Of course that was the way it would be; she'd spent so many years around bikers, she knew. Of course she worried – the smell after her brother had never really gone away - but her son wouldn't be alone out there. That she knew as well. As plain as the flashlight as she kept in her apron pocket. And honestly, it wasn't as though she'd be able to stop him. She knew bikers. She wouldn't ever hurt him like that. He would live out there. And love.

 

Oh, the love – all the colors, all the sounds. It'd be beautiful. Her parents talked about stability, about better-paid work, about coming home. She was surprised they still didn't see her life that way. Of course she had stability, of course she was already home. Her son would be too.

 

_-the end_

 


End file.
